http://crawdaddy.wolfgangsvault.com/Art ... Snake.html
And the review itself:
Shane MacGowan and the Popes: The Snake
by Greg Gaston
Crawdaddy
Issue 2.27 Nov 19-25, 2008
Shane MacGowan and the Popes
The Snake
(ZTT Records, 1995)
I was rumbling my way through late night TV recently, and found a repeat episode of Henry Rollins’ indie talk show. Get this scene: Rollins, the genial host in his black muscle t-shirt and crew-cut, the very vision of sculpted, teetotaling health, introducing his music guest, Mr. Shane MacGowan, the one and only, dissolute and bloated in his shaggy-dog demeanor. I had to laugh. But when MacGowan began croaking out the standard, “Dirty Old Town”, draped over the microphone and staggering in place, his voice stoked all the ghosts in my head, and I remembered how much I once loved the Pogues, especially their irascible frontman.
I officially began my Pogues mini-revival the next day, inhaling their records again and recalling their unique gifts. I thought back to when I saw them live at the Brixton Academy in London on St. Paddy’s Day way back in their prime—the classic setting for a vintage band. The group swaggered on wearing NYPD uniforms, swigging pints onstage to match their audience’s intake, or maybe it was vice versa. Two hours of drunken Irish sing-alongs ensued. My boot-tips actually had dents in them from swaying for position in the rowdy scrum on the floor. Still one of the best concerts I’ve ever witnessed or survived.
Seeing the great Shane MacGowan again, even on the small screen, made me dig out his solo debut, The Snake. It was released without much fanfare back in 1995, years after MacGowan had been sacked for drug/alcohol abuse by the remaining Pogues. I liked it then, but now in retrospect, it stands up as the equal of any late-period Pogues record, though not their peak, such as Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash or If I Should Fall From Grace With God from the mid-’80s.
Produced by Dave Jordan and MacGowan himself, The Snake plunges us back into the Irish bard’s maelstrom of gutter vibes and lyrical tales. MacGowan unveils his new band, the Popes, here, and they’re really not too far off the Pogues’ Celtic-punk sound. The requisite fiddle whistles show up, as do tenor banjos, uillean pipes, and the Irish harp. A few Pogues, Spider Stacy and Jem Finer, even play on a couple tunes. Johnny Depp, a mate of MacGowan’s, is credited for “weird guitar noises”—maybe apropos for a celebrity who’s befriended such unwashed renegades as Keith Richards, Hunter S. Thompson, and Mr. MacGowan.
The big difference in sound stems from Paul McGuinness’ guitar attack, especially on songs like the opener, “The Church of the Holy Spook.” It’s a fist-in-your-face garage workout that starts things off in punching form. MacGowan shouts in his craggy bark, “But I ruined my life by drinking, bad wives, taking pills, and cursing / Rock ‘n’ roll, you crucified me, left me all alone.” He’s never shied away from autobiography, and any time he can combine his Catholic childhood with his later vices is good grist for his songs.
Always obvious even from the start of his career, MacGowan’s exceptional songwriting gifts still shine here. Just his song titles alone can spin you off on poetic rambles—check out “A Mexican Funeral in Paris”, “Donegal Express”, or “The Rising of the Moon.” Like Tom Waits in his lyricism and voice, he’s got a knack for romanticizing his songs with wild drama and colorful detail, so they don‘t feel ordinary. His songs are full of life to be lived, whether on the margins, in the gutter, or down at the local pub.
Another welcome surprise here is his duet with Sinead O’Connor on “Haunted.” It’s a pop slow-burner that builds to crescendo with MacGowan’s shredded pipes trailing O’Connor’s golden voice on each refrain. Beauty and the Beast, indeed, and it works. His voice, now a defiant wreck, can still move you with its grit and burned-out soul. The song makes me think of his great duet, “Fairytale of New York” with the late Kirsty MacColl from the Pogues’ earlier era. That echo can’t be accidental. And “Haunted” doesn’t suffer from the comparison as much as you’d think.
If you’ve seen any interview footage with MacGowan in the last 15 years, you already know he has trouble completing lucid sentences. His stained, rotten teeth flash as he cackles. His natural state now, and seemingly for decades, is permanently pickled. Whether through pints, acid, or pills, it’s all a wash down the gullet. His befuddled manner is not so different from Ozzy Osbourne’s perpetually numb state, I hate to say. He’s become a soused legend, but watching him struggle with coherence can be a painful thing to witness. The damage leaks through his voice and his eyes.
So it’s a relief to find MacGowan is still capable of writing such earthy yet romantic songs. Probably to the surprise of his ex-Pogues in arms, he wasn’t finished after all when the band cut him loose for his debauchery. He followed The Snake with another fine solo release, Crock of Gold, a few years later. And, of course, since then he has reunited with the Pogues to mixed success. Even if MacGowan never makes another record or staggers through another concert, his legacy as one of the finest songwriters of the last few decades stands intact.
The Snake
(ZTT Records, 1995)
I was rumbling my way through late night TV recently, and found a repeat episode of Henry Rollins’ indie talk show. Get this scene: Rollins, the genial host in his black muscle t-shirt and crew-cut, the very vision of sculpted, teetotaling health, introducing his music guest, Mr. Shane MacGowan, the one and only, dissolute and bloated in his shaggy-dog demeanor. I had to laugh. But when MacGowan began croaking out the standard, “Dirty Old Town”, draped over the microphone and staggering in place, his voice stoked all the ghosts in my head, and I remembered how much I once loved the Pogues, especially their irascible frontman.
I officially began my Pogues mini-revival the next day, inhaling their records again and recalling their unique gifts. I thought back to when I saw them live at the Brixton Academy in London on St. Paddy’s Day way back in their prime—the classic setting for a vintage band. The group swaggered on wearing NYPD uniforms, swigging pints onstage to match their audience’s intake, or maybe it was vice versa. Two hours of drunken Irish sing-alongs ensued. My boot-tips actually had dents in them from swaying for position in the rowdy scrum on the floor. Still one of the best concerts I’ve ever witnessed or survived.
Seeing the great Shane MacGowan again, even on the small screen, made me dig out his solo debut, The Snake. It was released without much fanfare back in 1995, years after MacGowan had been sacked for drug/alcohol abuse by the remaining Pogues. I liked it then, but now in retrospect, it stands up as the equal of any late-period Pogues record, though not their peak, such as Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash or If I Should Fall From Grace With God from the mid-’80s.
Produced by Dave Jordan and MacGowan himself, The Snake plunges us back into the Irish bard’s maelstrom of gutter vibes and lyrical tales. MacGowan unveils his new band, the Popes, here, and they’re really not too far off the Pogues’ Celtic-punk sound. The requisite fiddle whistles show up, as do tenor banjos, uillean pipes, and the Irish harp. A few Pogues, Spider Stacy and Jem Finer, even play on a couple tunes. Johnny Depp, a mate of MacGowan’s, is credited for “weird guitar noises”—maybe apropos for a celebrity who’s befriended such unwashed renegades as Keith Richards, Hunter S. Thompson, and Mr. MacGowan.
The big difference in sound stems from Paul McGuinness’ guitar attack, especially on songs like the opener, “The Church of the Holy Spook.” It’s a fist-in-your-face garage workout that starts things off in punching form. MacGowan shouts in his craggy bark, “But I ruined my life by drinking, bad wives, taking pills, and cursing / Rock ‘n’ roll, you crucified me, left me all alone.” He’s never shied away from autobiography, and any time he can combine his Catholic childhood with his later vices is good grist for his songs.
Always obvious even from the start of his career, MacGowan’s exceptional songwriting gifts still shine here. Just his song titles alone can spin you off on poetic rambles—check out “A Mexican Funeral in Paris”, “Donegal Express”, or “The Rising of the Moon.” Like Tom Waits in his lyricism and voice, he’s got a knack for romanticizing his songs with wild drama and colorful detail, so they don‘t feel ordinary. His songs are full of life to be lived, whether on the margins, in the gutter, or down at the local pub.
Another welcome surprise here is his duet with Sinead O’Connor on “Haunted.” It’s a pop slow-burner that builds to crescendo with MacGowan’s shredded pipes trailing O’Connor’s golden voice on each refrain. Beauty and the Beast, indeed, and it works. His voice, now a defiant wreck, can still move you with its grit and burned-out soul. The song makes me think of his great duet, “Fairytale of New York” with the late Kirsty MacColl from the Pogues’ earlier era. That echo can’t be accidental. And “Haunted” doesn’t suffer from the comparison as much as you’d think.
If you’ve seen any interview footage with MacGowan in the last 15 years, you already know he has trouble completing lucid sentences. His stained, rotten teeth flash as he cackles. His natural state now, and seemingly for decades, is permanently pickled. Whether through pints, acid, or pills, it’s all a wash down the gullet. His befuddled manner is not so different from Ozzy Osbourne’s perpetually numb state, I hate to say. He’s become a soused legend, but watching him struggle with coherence can be a painful thing to witness. The damage leaks through his voice and his eyes.
So it’s a relief to find MacGowan is still capable of writing such earthy yet romantic songs. Probably to the surprise of his ex-Pogues in arms, he wasn’t finished after all when the band cut him loose for his debauchery. He followed The Snake with another fine solo release, Crock of Gold, a few years later. And, of course, since then he has reunited with the Pogues to mixed success. Even if MacGowan never makes another record or staggers through another concert, his legacy as one of the finest songwriters of the last few decades stands intact.
And the statement that the Pogues reunions have had mixed results-I think there have only
